My brother, who runs a hotel in Hawaii, called me and asked, “Where is your husband?” I replied, “He’s on a business trip in New York.” He responded, “No, he’s at my hotel in Hawaii with a beautiful lady, and he’s using your ATM card.” With my brother’s help, I made a revenge plan. The next day, my husband called me in panic.

Like something from a past life.

“You should have thought about that before you booked a flight to Hawaii.”

His face tightened.

“I know. I know. I messed up.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“Can we just talk?” he asked.

I hesitated.

Not because I wanted to fix anything.

But because I wanted to hear what he would say.

“Five minutes,” I said.

We sat on opposite sides of the porch.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Ethan rubbed his face.

“I never meant for it to go this far.”

“Cheating usually goes pretty far.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be serious.”

“That doesn’t help your argument.”

He sighed.

“I met Vanessa at a conference in Chicago.”

I said nothing.

“She flirted with me. I flirted back. It was stupid.”

“Then why Hawaii?”

He hesitated.

“Because I thought I deserved a break.”

I blinked.

“A break from what?”

“From everything,” he said defensively. “Work. Stress. Life.”

“And your wife?”

His silence answered the question.

“Did you tell her you were married?” I asked.

“At first, no.”

“Of course.”

“But later I did!”

“When?”

“Right before the trip.”

I almost laughed.

“And she still went?”

“Yes.”

“Then she’s not exactly innocent either.”

Ethan looked down at the porch floor.

“I never thought you’d find out.”

That sentence was the most honest thing he had said so far.

“Exactly,” I replied.

He looked up quickly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you weren’t sorry when you did it. You’re only sorry you got caught.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

His shoulders sagged.

“Lauren… please.”

“No.”

“Ten years,” he whispered.

“Yes,” I said. “Ten years.”

He swallowed hard.

“You’re really going to throw all of that away?”

I stood up.

“No,” I said quietly.

“You did.”

Ethan tried one more tactic.

Two weeks later he contested the divorce.

Margaret called me that afternoon.

“He’s claiming you’re overreacting,” she said.

I almost smiled.

“That’s bold.”

“He’s requesting mediation.”

“Will it change anything?”

“Not if you don’t want it to.”

“I don’t.”

Margaret paused.

“Then we proceed.”

The mediation meeting happened a month later.

Ethan arrived looking far more polished than the last time I had seen him.

Suit.

Fresh haircut.

Confident expression.

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